Postmortem
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "It was supposed to be her loving him back in whatever little, broken way she can right now. But he's here. He's still here, and every supposed to be is gone. Now it's just dangerous." A silly post-ep for "Eye of the Beholder" (4 x 05)


Title: Postmortem

WC: ~2400

Rating: T

Summary: "It was supposed to be her loving him back in whatever little, broken way she can right now. But he's here. He's still here, and every supposed to be is gone. Now it's just dangerous." A silly post-ep for "Eye of the Beholder" (4 x 05)

* * *

This wasn't supposed to be dangerous.

It wasn't when she started. When she made her excuses and left the two of them alone. When she pressed her back to the brick around the corner and tried to remember how to breathe. When she gave it a count of one hundred.

It was a lot of things then. So many things wedged between painful breaths. A gesture. Acceptance. Of his feelings. Of hers. The right thing to do because she's a mess and not ready for any of this. A minute ago, it was a lot of things.

But now it's just dangerous.

He was supposed to be gone. She was supposed to be dealing with it.

That's what she told herself as she turned that corner. That she needed to see. Otherwise she wasn't really dealing with it.

A glimpse of them. That's what she told herself. That it was important that she watch. That she see and accept.

She expected terrible things. Heads bent together, dark and light. Low laughter and shoulders bumping. Hip to hip with Serena hanging off his arm. His broad shoulders filling the gap between the elevator doors, his arm held out to usher her through. The two of them walking off into the sunset.

It was supposed to be a hard lesson. One she has to learn, because she's not ready and he loves her. Yesterday and tomorrow and every day she left him alone. He's loved her through all of that. Not just under a cruel sun with a grave gaping open nearby. Not just as she was leaving the world.

He loves her here and now, and he deserves more than she might ever be.

That's what this was supposed to be. Stilted words to Serena about the man he is, and then stepping aside. Letting him go.

It was supposed to be her loving him back in whatever little, broken way she can right now.

But he's here. He's still here, and every supposed to be is gone. Now it's just dangerous.

He's standing there in the bullpen. Alone. He's mulling something over. Staring at the coffee cup in his hand. Smiling as he sets it down . . . hopeful. Bright. Brighter still when he catches sight of her.

He knows. Absolutely everything has to be written all over her face. And just in case it isn't the _stupidest _thing in the world comes tumbling out of her mouth.

"You guys didn't go out?"

"No," he says. That's it. Not a syllable more.

She bites her tongue. She literally bites her tongue for all the good it does her. "_Why?__" _

She blurts it out. Loud. Incredulous. Completely transparent.

He smiles. It's a complicated thing. There's that flicker of hope again. That brightness. Because he sees it. He hears it. He has to _know _that she came back to have her heart broken. He has to know that she can't get the image of him pressing Serena into the wall out of her head. That the edges of her vision go red when she remembers the stamp of another woman's lipstick at the corner of his mouth. He has to _know_ how much she hates the idea of anyone but her having him.

But he smiles. He makes a joke. Something simple enough to defuse things. He shows her the gallery's bill for the sculpture. He makes a bid for sympathy. He lets them both off the hook.

But it's too late for her. It's too dangerous.

She asks him out. She practically asks him out.

"The least the NYPD could do is take you out for a hamburger."

It's a little heavy on the "practically" on her end, but she asks him out.

He doesn't miss it. Her carefully not careful choice of words. Of course he doesn't miss it. He pays her back in kind. The pause that leaves her hanging, but doesn't at all.

"I accept," he says.

It's mock serious, and they're on their way. Bumping shoulders and joking.

Carefully not careful with each other.

* * *

Being out in public isn't exactly helping. It's doing the opposite of helping, apparently.

They haven't flirted like this is in . . . well. For a long time. Not like this. He's shameless. Absolutely charming and cocky and _shameless_.

Before Demming, she thinks. When she's not busy firing back. Giving as good as she gets and toying with the straw of her milkshake more than is, strictly speaking, necessary. Or decent for a public place. When she's not caught up in that, she thinks it's been that long since they've really flirted like this.

Last year was different. Entirely different. The illusion of safety in Gina. In Josh. There was an edge to everything. And an odd kind of frankness that had them constantly creeping toward some kind of line. For him more than her, once things ended with Gina. But it was . . . somber. Serious. Not really flirting. Not like this.

And this is different still. There's a warmth to it. The intimacy of shorthand and inside jokes. The way they _know _each other. He knows her, and that's dangerous too. She knows him. This is different.

It's not that late, but there's a weary, slightly hysterical edge to everything for both of them. They eat a tremendous amount of food, and it leaves them sleepy and satisfied. The up and down of the sugar rush makes everything funny.

She laughs hard at something stupid he says. She actually _snorts, _and it sets him off. He's breathless and pounding the table. She's tossing wadded up napkins at him. She's leaning way out into the aisle to stockpile straws so she can shoot the wrappers at him.

They're drawing dirty looks from the manager behind the counter. People at neighboring tables roll their eyes and nudge each other. An older man sighs as he passes and mutters, "Young love."

She sobers at that. She catches her breath and nearly swallows the straw she was just about to fire at him. She feels herself blushing hot. Hoping against hope that maybe he didn't hear, and maybe he won't pick right now to crack open one eyelid. Maybe he'll wait until she's not looking like a deer in headlights to peek around the hand he's holding up to fend off her attacks.

But he does pick right then. Of course he does. Of course he heard. And of course he's smiling. Not batting an eye. Of course he's completely shameless about it.

Of course it's dangerous.

* * *

Her heart is pounding as they stroll away from the restaurant. He's chatting calmly. Carrying on exactly as he did inside.

She's freaking out. Because they have _never _flirted like this, right? And she asked him out, didn't she? God knows how it will end.

Their common path doesn't cover a lot of ground. She counts their footsteps to calm herself. To focus so she doesn't obsess. So she doesn't have to figure out what to do when they come to where they'll part ways. What he might say or try and how she'll head him off at the pass. Or how she won't.

It doesn't work. The focusing thing. The obsession countermeasures. Counting footsteps doesn't work at all, apparently, because they're here. They're on the corner where she goes one way and he goes the other and she's been through every scenario from a chaste peck on the cheek to being hauled in for public indecency when one or both of them decides to just go for it and backs the other into the nearest sturdy surface. She's pondered veiled admissions and accusations and marriage proposals and they're _here_ and she doesn't know what to do.

"Kate? You ok?"

He's looking at her curiously. Standing a socially acceptable distance away and that's . . . frankly kind of disappointing. A parting collegial head nod didn't really make her list of scenarios, but that seems to be where this is going.

"Fine," she says. It's too bright. It's false and he sees it. He hears it. His eyes narrow a little. She panics. "Full. Tired kind of."

"Yeah."

It's skeptical. It means _No. _It means _You__'__re panicking and we both know it_. Killing him because he's _smug_ and he knows _exactly _how to push her buttons also didn't make her list of scenarios. It's kind of a ridiculous oversight.

"Well." His tone implies that it was her turn to say something and she missed it. She did. _Shit_. She kind of did. "I'll let you head off to bed, then."

"Bed. Yeah," she repeats stupidly. She realizes too late that she's said bed. _He__'__s _said bed. There are a _lot _of scenarios where bed figures in, but she can't remember what she'd decided to do about any of them.

"_Bed,_" she says again. Too loud this time and she's pretty sure he's having a hard time not laughing at her. There's really no excuse for not having a detailed _killing him_ scenario at the ready.

He turns. He seems to be going. He has his hands in his pockets, and he bumps her shoulder one last time before he thanks her again for taking pity on him in his impoverished state.

"You're welcome?" It comes out as a question when he's already five steps away.

He half turns back to her and he's definitely laughing at her now. He's barely trying to hide it, and she wonders if he really thinks she won't take him out. "Until tomorrow, Detective."

He's well out of earshot when she remembers to say, "Night."

* * *

She's kicking herself the rest of the way home. Talking to herself and gesturing wildly enough that homeless people are giving her wide berth.

She's an idiot. A tongue-tied, sorry excuse for an adult human being.

She takes the stairs. Some kind of punishment that leaves her breathless and exhausted as she pushes through her front door.

She's in the bathroom when her phone rings. She's scrubbing savagely at her make-up and trying to avoid looking herself in the eye. It takes a few repeats before she hears it at all. Before she registers that it's him. His ringtone.

She answers before she's really decided that she's going to answer. That she should be allowed to answer, given the events of the last twenty minutes. She answers before she remembers that the person who answers is supposed to say something.

There's a long, long pause and then her name, faint through the phone. _"__Beckett?__"_

"Castle?" It's incredulous. A strange stage whisper, like she's afraid of being caught. It's _moronic_.

"_Hey!" _He sounds cheerful. Delighted. Really very annoying, under the circumstances. _"How are you? Do anything fun tonight?" _

"Um . . ." She pulls the phone away from her face. She looks into the mirror to make sure that it's her. That it's a phone. She holds the face of it up and see his name backwards. She stares some more.

"_I did," _he goes on, apparently not concerned with whether or not she's keeping up her end of the conversation. _"I had a date." _

"A _date?__" _That's not a whisper at all. It's a scandalized, pearl-clutching shout. She considers jumping out the window. If only there were one in the whole damned place that hadn't been long since painted shut.

"_I think so." _She can practically _hear_ him smirk. _"It's hard to tell sometimes. Especially with some people." _

The way he pops _some people _snaps her out of it. This sudden onset teenager, or whatever the hell it is. "And what makes you think it was a date?"

"_She asked." _He _hems_ to himself, considering something. _"The _way _she asked. If she could 'take me out for a hamburger.' Not 'buy_ _me' or 'spring for.' She specifically said, 'take me out'." _

"Hmmmmm." She grabs a towel off the rack and trails through to the bedroom. She flops back on her bed and feels a completely anachronistic desire for an actual phone cord to twirl around her finger. "That all you've got? Sounds circumstantial."

"_Oh, no. Not all. She flirted all night. Kind of outrageous, actually." _

She laughs out loud at that. She grins hard up at the ceiling. "Outrageous, huh?"

"_Completely," _he says, and she can hear him grinning, too. She can taste it.

"So what makes you think it _wasn't _a date then?" Her heart skips a beat or two as she hears herself ask. She actually wants to know. She _really _wants to know so she can either stop kicking herself or end it all. One way or the other, she really wants to know.

"_She didn't kiss me goodnight." _There's humor in it. He's still flirting. But there's the tiniest bit of uncertainty, too. The same slight waver in his voice from earlier. When she told him it was obvious that Serena really liked him.

_So, then, you think I should . . . pursue it?_

"Maybe . . ." Her own voice shakes with it. The memory of hope winking out. "Maybe she's old fashioned."

He laughs at that. Loud peals of it coming down the line and the little cloud over them blows away. _"It's . . . that's . . . It's _very _unlikely." _

"Well maybe she just didn't want to look _desperate,_ then." It's huffy. A little defensive. But mostly she's just kicking herself. Taking it out on him. She should have kissed him. Why the hell didn't she just _kiss _him? "After all, she did the asking."

"_I didn't think of that," _he says quietly.

It's thoughtful. More than a little regret in it. She wonders if she's not the only one kicking herself. It makes her feel better in a twisted kind of way. Less lonely.

They fall into an easy kind of silence. She hears his breath and knows he can hear hers. She feels giddy. Like she's fifteen and neither of them can hang up. Really, truly, literally can't bring themselves to do it.

"_So. What do you think?" _He asks after a while. His voice is low. Shy. Still flirting, and a little sleep in it. She wonders if he's sprawled out on his bed, too. If he's longing for the days of phones with cords to twirl. "_Was it a date? Am I crazy?" _

"Not mutually exclusive, Castle." He _humphs _loudly. She laughs. "But . . . a date. I think it's a possibility."

"_Yeah?" _

She thinks of him standing alone in the bullpen. Bright. Hopeful.

"Yeah," she says.

"_So." _He draws out the word like he's thinking hard. _"How long do I have to wait to call her? Don't want to seem desperate."  
_


End file.
